Dreadful (Sherlock Fanfiction)
by HailTheFreakShow
Summary: A young woman reaches out to Sherlock Holmes with a case at a very odd hour in the night. He breaks her down by knowing her entire past with just one glance. Sherlock is vulnerable and hates this dreadful feeling he soon develops for her. (This book is inspired by the episode 'The Lying Detective')
1. 1: Welcoming

I looked out the window. The sky was tar-black in the late of night; large clouds were moving towards me. I heard a tapping on the window and then it became a pitter-patter. People ran for cover outside and umbrellas were opened as the clouds spat out their beads of water. Puddles began plinking as the rainfall became heavier. The roofs of the cars danced with spray and I could hear the murmuring of the rain through the window. It sounded like the buzzing of angry bees. Finally I had made it to 221b Baker Street.

Taking my first steps out of the taxi cab, I rush to the canopy of Speedy's Café, taking shelter of the horrid rain that poured from above. I brush off some of the droplets on my dark green coat, attempting to make myself look presentable. I take a deep breath and give a few knocks on the door that read _'221b'_ on it. In only seconds, it opened to an older lady who was dressed in a lovely red gown. "Are you here for Mr. Holmes?" She asked with curiosity in her tone.

"Yes ma'am. I apologize for the late hour. I'm not sure why he scheduled a night appointment." I reply as I enter the flat, taking my coat off and placing it on a rack by the door.

"He's right up there. But I'll warn you, he's been acting a bit strange lately dear," The lady started. "I'm Martha Louise Hudson by the way, but you may call me Mrs. Hudson."

"It's very nice to meet you. My name is Davis, Isabell Davis." I kindly smile and shake Mrs. Hudson's hand.

"You as well love, Mr. Holmes is up the stairs, just knock on the door." She said as she entered her room on the first floor.

I make my way to the second level and approach his flat door. I feel my nerves getting the worst of me. I try to shake them away and finally attempt to let him acknowledge my presence. _'Here we go'_ Three simple knocks and the door creeps open. There Sherlock himself stood wearing a white shirt and darkened robe before my eyes. "Ah! Miss Davis. Come right in and take a seat."

Walking into his flat, I get a quick glimpse of the main room and find a place to sit down in the middle of the small area. It was a complete mess. Papers scattered across the floor, a graffitied smilie face on the wall behind me with holes, and junk laying about. I couldn't even see how he lived a day in the type of matter, with this uncalled for rubbish! _1...2...3..._ I mentally calmed myself down before my thoughts became verbal. I knew I liked a tidy space, but needed to remember what I am here for; my issue and not this man's messy habits.

"So, Isabell Davis, tell me, what is your problem?" He asked of what seemed like little interest as he pulled his cellular device out. All to be heard were rain droplets tapping on the nearby window, until I opened my mouth and started to explain.


	2. 2: Acrimony

The dimly lit room fell silent before I spoke, Mr. Holmes' ears were open and ready for me to elaborate the case I urgently had for him. "I work for a special effects department in the middle of London for television shows and theatre," I started. "One evening when we were settling down to close up shop; disaster struck. The cast and crew were shuffling out the studio when the lights suddenly went black and a scream rang out. When the lights were lit Clara, one of the cast members of a show, was found dead in her dressing room."

Without saying a word Sherlock only narrowed his bluish green eyes at me as if in an angered matter. I slowly begin to speak once more, but quickly get interrupted. "What sort of death did this _'Clara'_ encounter?"

I hesitate for a moment, a bit confused by the question.

"The death! Was it a headshot? Stabbed possibly? Or even decapitated?" Sherlock said.

"Oh-err, I'm not fully sure. I got a small glimpse of her body laying face down on the floor. I heard the scream, naturally running towards it, but others reached her first. When I saw the blood trail and noticed that it was real, I felt nauseous and ran to the loo. Once I came back, she was gone, people were phoning an ambulance, then they vanished. It all happened so quickly..."

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Sherlock randomly asked, changing the subject.

"Pardon me?"

"Tea Miss Davis! Would you like a cup?" Sherlock spat as he lankily stood up from his chair.

"I-I don't understand how tea can solve this problem Mr. Holmes."

"You're nervous!"

"What do you mean?" I question quickly.

"I can hear it in your tone and see it in your body language. Why do you feel the urge of being on edge?...I can even see it by your light brown locks, the way you naturally play/tug on your hair in situations. Your brows, the creases on your forehead, they furrow and curve in a sorrow matter from time-to-time almost in a worried/nerve-racking way Isabell, if I may call you that. Shall I continue?"

"No! Please stop. I'm here for this murder case. Not you going on about my personal life!"

"Oh but Isabell I can. I can read a book by just its cover, unraveling the pages inside and out. I can break your walls and tear down like a decaying fortress."

I freeze up in fear, wishing his weird-like attitude would stop immediately. Alas, it only grew stranger. "Now, that tea. Where'd I put it? Ah yes! The kitchen." He joyously said to himself, exiting the living room. I bite my lower lip and take a deep breath. Staring out the window, I see the rain becoming lighter and the street lights from below. Hoping Sherlock would be alright, I stand up.

"Oh but sit back down Miss for we are not done yet." He spoke while setting a cup of tea down on the small table between the two of us.

"Prosthetics?" He questioned.

"What?"

"Artist! What type of artist are you? Just makeup or other fits to the category?"

"Yes, I work with prosthetics, body paint, and regular makeup. Most of us who work there are aquatinted with almost all forms of anatomy art for performance entertainment. What does this have to do with the murder?"

"Narrows down clues for Clara sweetheart." He winked.

Seconds later Sherlock dives into deep thought which lasted several minutes. As he was thinking about lord knows what, I notice marks on his forearms. He was taking drugs! This explained why he acted so odd...I then spot a needle resting on a tray near the kitchen. I felt utter disgusted to what I found, soon no longer trusting the man that sat before my eyes. He was a loon. I shouldn't be wasting anymore time with this foolery of a man who is possibly higher than a kite at the moment.

Quickly standing up from my chair, I try to head towards the door until Sherlocks' hand grabbed my left arm. "Where are you going?"

"I knew I shouldn't have spent my precious time here! Wasting my money on this crap! My friend is dead and you can't help!" I spat. Sherlock's grip tightened and swung me back down to my original seat.

"Your name is Isabell Allyson Davis. A twenty-four-year-old woman who lost her mother to overdosage on drugs and your father who commit suicide when you were only the age of nine. Moved in with your abusive aunt that nearly starved you everyday. Once graduated from Secondary School you found a shitty job as a waitress in a run-down café along with living in an awfully small flat. You wished to pursue your talent of being an artist so you were hired at TILT Professional Makeup where you work now. You have an orange cat, had an orange cat, are living all alone in a flat not too far from Barker Street, and lastly wish to do as your father and kill yourself slowly as I can see by your arms!" Sherlock bluntly blurted.

I was speechless. Cold and pale from the inside out. My heart ached from the truth that Mr. Holmes had said. How could he know such detail of my life? The life I hated and did secretly want to end. I was frozen and didn't know what to do next. He did as he said he could do and tore me down. He saw right through me like a ghost and I despised it with a passion. Oh the rage I felt for Sherlock at the moment boiled from within. I felt a tear run down my rose-red cheeks. He then wiped it way and handed me a tissue almost in a forgiving way.

"Biscuits. Come, we now need biscuits." He gently said as he took hold of my hand, leading me out the door and into the dampened dark streets.


End file.
